


Possession

by Saucery



Category: Guardians of the Galaxy (2014)
Genre: Aliens Made Them Do It, BDSM, Collars, Consent Issues, Dom/sub, Dominance, Drama, Exhibitionism, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Nipple Licking, Nipple Piercings, Pansexual Character, Piercings, Possessive Behavior, Power Dynamics, Rescue Missions, Sex Club, Sexual Slavery, Size Difference, Size Kink, Submission, Undercover, Undercover Missions
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-12
Updated: 2014-08-12
Packaged: 2018-02-12 19:40:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2122281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saucery/pseuds/Saucery
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Drax and Peter go undercover at an alien sex club. What could possibly go wrong?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Possession

* * *

 

“Oh, I ain’t going in there,” Peter said, peering at the neon-lit windows of the sex club through a pair of old-fashioned binoculars. “They’ve got fucking _tentacle monsters_. And while I’m accepting of different kinds of species, I’m not going anywhere near those.”

Drax folded his muscular arms and frowned. “Did you not once mate with a—”

“That was the one time! And she had a couple of tentacles, yeah, but she wasn’t a tentacle monster!”

“Never pegged you for a square, Quill,” said Rocket, lounging in his chair with a carton of takeaway Talurian noodles on his lap.

“Just because I don’t fancy being simultaneously penetrated in every orifice by slimy tentacles does _not_ make me a square, dude.”

“I do not see how you could transform into an abstract geometric shape,” Drax said, dubiously, examining Peter like Peter may genuinely do that.

“I say we forget about abstract geometric shapes and focus on the very tangible money we’ll get for rescuing that Xandarian senator’s daughter from a sex trafficking ring,” Gamora put in.

“I am Groot,” said Groot, approvingly.

“There’s also the humanitarian angle of shutting down said sex trafficking ring,” Peter muttered, “but I guess we’re still pretending not to be bleeding hearts.”

Gamora raised a superior eyebrow. “If you’re too ‘chicken’ to go in, Star-Lord, I’ll go in myself. Besides, I’m more competent at undercover operations.”

“No. No, no, no.” Peter shook his head emphatically. “You’re gonna stay here.”

“Why?”

“Because! Because you’re a lady.”

“I have never before been accused of being a _lady_ ,” said Gamora, evidently appalled. “I am no wilting flower embroidering love-notes onto an equally insipid lover’s handkerchief. I am a professional killer.” She jabbed Peter in the chest. Painfully. “As are you. Get over yourself and get in there, or allow me do it.”

“Or allow us do it,” Drax said. The team turned to him, and he shrugged. “If Peter poses as a slave, and I as his master, nobody will dare assault him. Let alone have him perform with a… monster of tentacles.”

There was a speculative silence, which was eventually broken by Peter saying: “But you’re absolutely literal, man. You can’t go undercover. You can’t even lie!”

“I do not have to lie. I merely have to tell the truths that serve my purpose.”

Peter scoffed. “And what truths might those be?”

“That you would be a pretty slave.”

“P- _pretty_?” Peter exclaimed, indignantly, as Rocket sniggered in the background.

“And that I often contemplate taking my pleasure from you.”

Peter gaped at Drax. Groot looked bored. Gamora was rolling her eyes. Rocket was… still sniggering.

“That’s… That is highly inappropriate, I would have you know,” said Peter, gathering the last shreds of his dignity around himself like a pathetically threadbare cloak. “I’m your captain. You don’t get to objectify me in your sexual fantasies.” Peter felt a flicker of interest at the prospect of a man as massive, immovable and overwhelming as Drax lusting after him, but he ignored it, the way he’d recently taken to ignoring his own attraction to Gamora. Crew came first. His crew was his only family, now. He wasn’t going to fuck that up. Literally or metaphorically.

“Inappropriate or otherwise, I am most suited to accompany you on this mission.” A note of dryness entered Drax’s voice. “Would you permit me to, _Captain_?”

A part of Peter wanted to plug his ears and sing ‘Ooga chaka, ooga chaka’ to himself, but the rest of him was acutely aware that there was a seventeen-year-old girl who required their help. Potentially, a whole lotta younger girls and boys, too. “Whatever,” he grumbled, finally. “Just remember that what happens in Sex Club remains in Sex Club. You won’t gossip about… about anything that happens in there, all right?”

“Not everything in the universe is right—in fact, rightness and justice are rarer than Kronian crystals—but I concur with this particular statement of yours.”

Peter sighed, pretending not to notice that Rocket had fallen half out of his chair, wheezing with laughter, stray noodles sticking to his snout. “Awesome.”

 

* * *

 

Peter was shirtless in the medbay. Shirtlessness and medbays generally boded ill for Peter whenever they coincided; Peter had, thus far, failed to encounter a nurse sexy enough to justify the experience. And Drax definitely wasn’t Peter’s definition of a sexy nurse.

“What the hell is that?” Peter asked, even though it was obvious what the item was. “The One Ring?”

“It is, indeed, but one ring,” Drax said, the nipple-ring absurdly tiny in his giant palm as he disinfected a needle with his other hand, sanitizing its glowing tip using the mini-flamethrower Rocket was hoisting aloft for him. “I thought it best to pierce one nipple, not two, in order to portray myself as a master that rewards you with marks of possession when you perform to my satisfaction. Throughout our time in the club, you will be desperate to please me, in order to earn a second nipple-ring.”

“You… I… What?” Peter’s jaw worked uselessly for a minute. “Aren’t you overthinking this? How come you aren’t this thorough in combat missions?”

“I am always thorough.”

“Uh, not _this_ thorough. You’re acting seriously suspicious here, pal.”

Drax grinned. A wide, frankly scary grin. “I am unlikely to find a similar chance to indulge my desires toward you. It would be both foolish and inefficient to waste this opportunity.”

“Sure. Efficiency is what you’re about, given that you spent three fucking hours methodically extracting teeth from that bank-robber on Parza.”

“He shot at you.” Drax scowled. “He deserved it.”

“Wait. You tortured him _for me_? Gee, I’m touched. Not.”

“At least he isn’t leaving dead rodents at your doorstep,” Rocket said, breaking his uncharacteristic reticence. Given his quivering whiskers, he was probably withholding more laughter.

“There are no doors on our ship,” said Drax, puzzled. “Nor are there rodents to eliminate.”

Rocket coughed out a sound that was 70% giggle and 30% snort. “Don’t worry, pussy-cat. Your human loves you.”

“You. Out,” Peter commanded. “The needle should be sanitized enough, by now. And I don’t need you gawking at me as I’m pierced so I can more believably pass as a motherfucking sex slave.”

“I will not insist that you fuck anybody’s mother,” Drax assured him. “That is not among my appetites, or among the appetites of my cover identity.”

Peter’s shoulders slumped in defeat. “Get outta here, Rocket.”

Rocket switched off his flamethrower, smirked, and exited the room.

Leaving Peter with the current bane of his life. Drax had a decidedly unnerving gleam in his eyes, matched by the gleam of the nipple-ring.

“Sit up,” Drax instructed. “This should be quick and relatively painless.”

“When a freelance torturer tells me a procedure’s painless, I have difficulty believing him.”

“I only torture my enemies.”

“That is _so_ reassuring.”

“Sit up,” Drax repeated, and Peter straightened, knuckles whitening around the edge of the mattress.

Maybe he was being a baby about this, given the agonizing wounds he’d had inflicted on him as a daring intergalactic buccaneer, but this wasn’t just about the simple act of getting pierced; there was something vulnerable about letting this be done to him. If Peter was given to waxing philosophical about things as opposed to either kicking their collective asses or running from them, he’d say that being pierced was a metaphor for penetration, and that was the reason for his nervousness. But Peter was not given to waxing philosophical. He ignored his brain’s impractical ramblings and concentrated on Drax, and on Drax’s oddly comforting physicality, which negated the existence of complexities and metaphors altogether.

Drax rubbed a thumb back and forth across Peter’s left nipple, until it stiffened. “It’s so small,” he mused. “Like the rest of you.”

“Excuse me?” Peter yelped. “I’m not _small_ , okay. I’m very generously sized. All over.”

“Smaller than me.”

“Yeah, yeah, Abominable Snowman. Smaller than you.”

“I will disregard your colloquialism in favor of proceeding to pierce you. Prepare yourself.”

Peter prepared himself, which consisted of distracting himself with the flexing of Drax’s pectorals as he—

“Ow!” Peter jumped, but it was already finished. The ring now occupied a place that had previously been unoccupied, and there was a drop of blood beading beneath it. “My poor, innocent nipple! My virgin nipple!”

“A nipple cannot be a virgin,” Drax said, picking up the Healing Accelerator and targeting it at Peter’s newest decoration.

“Says you, _nipple despoiler_.”

“Peter. You are not making any sense.”

Peter huffed. The buzz of the accelerator started a tingling in his nipple, an itch that had Peter squirming. Well, he wouldn’t have to worry about infections. There was that. Within moments, Peter was completely healed—but the itching wasn’t gone, yet, as if Peter’s flesh was irrationally hanging on to the memory of what it was supposed to feel, rather than what modern technology intended it to feel.

“Are you in discomfort?” Drax enquired, laying the accelerator aside when its indicator turned from red to green and it ceased buzzing.

“Nope,” Peter said, continuing to squirm. “But it itches. Must be the drying blood. I can scratch it, can’t I? Because the accelerator—whoa. What’re you doing?” Peter said, when Drax wrapped his (large, warm) hands around Peter’s waist, dragging him closer to the end of the bed.

“I have marked you,” Drax said, in a low, weirdly wondering tone. “I’ve made you bleed.”

“Has anyone told you that you have freaky fetishes? Because you have freaky fetishes.”

Then Drax proved Peter’s point by bending forward to kiss that nipple, and Peter jolted in surprise. Drax wasn’t just kissing him, he was licking Peter clean of blood, and the scorching swipe of his tongue was as sudden as it was startling. It worsened the itch, somehow making it deeper, hotter. Peter hissed and arched away, but Drax _held_ him there until it occurred to Peter to say “Stop,” and the word was distressingly breathy, not discouraging at all.

Drax did stop, however, immediately releasing Peter. “I apologize. Did I injure—”

“No,” Peter snapped, still annoyingly breathless. “Let’s keep that sorta activity for the mission, got it? When it’s strictly professional. I’m not—I don’t want to to do this stuff on our ship. Where it’s personal.”

Drax seemed confused by the concept of personal versus professional, but he nodded anyway, clearly determined to figure it out on his own. It was sweet, almost childlike, but that cast what had happened in an even more disturbing light. Peter briefly considered the possibility that Drax might, emotionally, be more defenseless than Peter was in carnal situations. It was a bizarre realization, given how fucking _huge_ Drax was. Despite his size, Drax wore his heart on his sleeve, and if he inspired occasional bouts of protectiveness in Peter, that was a normal side-effect of being a member of Peter’s crew. It wasn’t… special. Was it?

Resolving to dispel such unwelcome epiphanies, Peter waved at the slim box sitting on the shelf ordinarily stacked with medical supplies. “Shall we proceed? What’s next in my makeover into the perfect pet?”

“The collar,” Drax said, reaching for the box and opening it. “All slaves at the club sport collars, so it is a necessity, while the ring adds verisimilitude to your disguise, but is not a prerequisite. Nonetheless, Gamora encouraged me to pierce you for this mission.”

“ _Gamora_ encouraged you to—nah, of course she did. Bet you were eager to take that encouragement on board, huh?”

“It was… a convenient confluence of utility and delight.”

“For you.”

“Does the piercing bring you no joy?” Drax appeared disappointed.

Peter was not blushing. He wasn’t.

The disappointment on Drax’s face evaporated.

“Get on with it,” Peter mumbled, and Drax lifted the collar out of the box. It was a rough-hewn, studded strip of leather that was kinda familiar…

“It is a segment of my vambrace, that I have fashioned specifically for this purpose,” Drax explained. “If I was to collar you, I preferred that the choice of material be significant.”

Peter was tempted to inform Drax that this was a flagrant violation of the separation of the personal and the professional, but he had to admit that Drax truly understanding the idea was as implausible as Republicans understanding the separation of church and state. “Fine,” he said, instead, and lifted his chin, baring his throat. “Do it.”

But Drax spent ages just _studying_ Peter’s throat, like it was a science project and Drax was dedicated to scoring a high grade.

“What?” Peter demanded, at last.

“I’m reflecting on what a pity it will be that the collar will hide bite-marks and bruises.”

“You’re going to bite me?” Peter squeaked, except for how that noise was totally more manly than a squeak.

“You will beg me to bite you,” Drax corrected. “Remember that you are a slave craving marks of possession.”

“Oh, yeah,” Peter said, faintly. “How could I forget?”

“Worry not,” Drax hastened to say, earnestly. “I will replace your collar soon after biting you, thus keeping you safe from trespassers and obeying the rules of the club.”

“Another convenient confluence?”

“You could say that.”

“I _am_ saying that.” Peter tried not to gulp as the collar was secured around his throat and buckled with the exact same buckles that lined Drax’s vambraces, during battles. Nothing intimate about that, whatsoever. Not even if the leather was worn and buttery-smooth thanks to years of contact with Drax’s skin. “What’ll you do to those ‘trespassers’? Theoretically?”

“I will kill them.”

“Wow. I’m flattered.” Lucky the club took killing in stride, given the snuff films that were shot—sometimes literally—in the basement. A basement Peter largely pretended wasn’t there, for the sake of his sanity. Jesus Christ, this was an establishment that thoroughly deserved the razing-to-the-ground Peter was planning for it.

Drax slipped a finger under Peter’s collar, ostensibly testing whether it was both comfortable enough for Peter and snug enough to do its job, but there was a casual dominance to the gesture that made Peter shiver, that made him remind himself that he wasn’t being claimed for _real_ , no matter what his stupid libido was telling him.

“So?” Peter smiled shakily. “Do I look like a slave?”

“Yes,” said Drax, his gaze heavy and strange and dark. “You do.”

 

* * *

 

 **Next up:** Safewords and blowjobs and exhibitionism, oh my!

**Author's Note:**

> Like my writing? Want updates and sneak previews? Follow me on [Tumblr](http://saucefactory.tumblr.com/)!


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